You Hurt Me. Convinced Me That The Light That Possessed Our Bodies Was Liquid Love. Ruined Me. All That

Artist Luo Li Rong

Forough Farrokhzad, from Another Birth: Selected Poems of F. F.; “In The Dark,”

in the kitchen baking cake, dodging our cats underneath our bare feet singing to amy winehouse with wooden spoons as microphones. god, don’t I love you like flowers love the spring, sweetheart. god, don’t you look beautiful with your head titled back belting out back to black, sunlight streaming in through the window, with a mouth full of batter and a heart full of love.

“(To be loved means to be consumed. To love means to radiate with inexhaustible light. To be loved is to pass away, to love is to endure.)”

— Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. (via xshayarsha)

Beetlejuice (1988)

it’s getting colder and I miss watching the condensation of your breath form and disappear in the air. the iciness of your blue eyes, the chill in your stare. winter boy, you said you never loved me. winter boy, I have so many questions: was it all real? why can’t you look me in the eye any more? how did you forget me that easily? 

winter boy, how did our love get so cold?

trigger warning: self harm

it’s been a year since I last hurt myself, an addiction that took all my willpower to overcome. I know I can fashion words into something beautiful but there was nothing pretty about all that self-hatred, all that anger, loss and pain. all that pain coiled in my stomach, gnawing at me from the inside. there was absolutely nothing beautiful about scarring a body that works so hard to keep going. I can’t make this beautiful or romantic or wistful. but it’s over now. I can breathe. I just want to let that fact be.